Many times, throughout the history of the Forgotten Realms, the drow and
the elves of the surface world have fought. The first and greatest war sent
the drow to live deep beneath the earth in the fey and terrible place known
as the Underdark.
Other battles have been equally devastating, although less well known. One such battle occurred in defense of a forest populated by Wood Elves. In the battle, a terrible magic was unleashed. In an instant, all of the drow army and most of the surface elves vanished for all eternity. But they did not die. They were only sent someplace else, another world entirely... one that had never seen elves, humans, or any race of the Forgotten Realms.
This is not their story. This is the story of their decendants, after thousands of years...
The female drow squinted at the heavens, regarding the sky with slitted eyes. It was a heavily overcast day, the kind of day drow preferred when they had to venture out in the daylight at all. Still, it stabbed at her red eyes like a lance.
Curse that polymorph spell. She thought sourly. Until this day, sunlight had never given her pain. And it wouldn't, when she was allowed to return to her natural form.
With a sigh, she lowered her gaze to look at the forces allied with her. First, she regarded her companies in this odd, perilous endeavor.
Katari returned her gaze directly, and flashed her a grin that pulled out a reluctant smile in return. Katari was half-drow, half-pwikie, a race native to this world. She looked mostly drow, but it didn't fool anyone. Her eyes, double the size of any normal drow, were winsomely cute and utterly pwikie even if they were red. Her ears jutted out from her head in the usual way for all the races of this world, but nothing could be done to help that. Her hair had been dyed white for their enterprise, but normally it was a brilliant and somewhat clashing indigo. It had been pulled into a simple braid, unlike the usual gravity defying pwikie styles. Her outfit, though... it was the gauzy, silken fabric only the pwikie made. Scarves of red and white had been sewn together to make the skirt, and the bodice was a matching red, tightly fitted and appliquéd with black spiders, her one concession to their trip.
Sighing softly, the female glanced at her next companion. Face blank, the male drow was gazing into the distance. Kelnozz's robes were plain spidersilk, severe and boring... but radiating magic to anyone who cared to look. The mage of their group, he had many translation and teleportation spells at his disposal. She hoped the latter wouldn't be needed. Under most circumstances, she wouldn't have trusted him a bit, but for this he would do his best.
The last member of their delegation shifted anxiously from foot to foot, and the female noble sent her an annoyed look. A commoner by the name of Kwi, she was remarkably unhealthy looking for a drow. Her skin was a sallow shade of grey, and her teeth were streaked with grey. She was a specialist in ancient tongues and customs.
That was what everyone thought, anyway. No anxiety showed on the female's face, but she wet her lips with a bright pink tongue at the thought. Kwi wouldn't survive a week if her true nature got out. The others in the group knew, and had been bound to silence by magic and clerical work. Except for her.
There's no need to bind me, since I always knew... As a princess of house M'Bearl, first house of Nadrezzan, Arnes had been made aware of her adoptive mother's most secret asset.
Adopted. I can still hardly believe she did it. Her hand strayed to the house symbol hanging from her neck. Arnes had always made herself useful to Matron Jerlyth, and they had even become rather fond of each other, but still... she's never expected to rise above favored ward in the family. Certainly her "sisters" hadn't expected it!
Of course, the Matron hadn't made her heir. An elf breed of gold descent, she wouldn't have had a prayer of holding the house, even supposing she'd survived to take the position. Not likely, that. Her new siblings wouldn't have accepted it for a moment... only being ranked below the least of them had earned her even grudging acceptance.
Arnes shrugged to herself, dismissing it. She'd have to get through the current mission before she could worry about house intrigue.
That brought her mind to the people surrounding her. A full two score warriors for protection. She eyed them thoughtfully, measuring them, and was pleased. They were the cream of the warrior crop, last year students and mostly nobles, led by three of their teachers. It was the kind of escort any matron would be proud to have.
And the mages... well, that made her more uneasy than proud. Two mages, one the cities Archmage, were putting the final touches on the spell that would send them through. There were also a half dozen other mages, extremely powerful, watching and waiting. They were there in case something went wrong.
Something goes wrong! Arnes suppressed a slightly hysterical giggle. That much might in place... in case something went wrong. She'd heard rumors of the first gate. If the rumors were correct, the Archmage had barely escaped with his life and without two assistants. Since then, he'd been even more cautious.
The clerical contingent was the smallest, but still strong. A high priestess of the Weaver, a high priest a Jaraten, god of Justic, and a cleric dedicated to Loviatar. Arnes dropped her hand to the whip at her best, feeling the rough, but comfortable hilt. It was nothing like the old tales said a priestess of Lloth would carry, but it was powerfully enchanted and carried a strong piece of Loviatar herself within its metal.
Not that that's entirely a good thing. Arnes herself was a priestess of the Weaver, and a good one, but the Weaver didn't specialize in enchanting weapons. As the Mistress of Pain, the Handmaiden of Hurt, Loviatar's weapons were cruel and deadly. The long, thin whip was unbreakable and would respond to her telepathic commands. Truly an amazing thing to be given to a Priestess of another order, but there were many of Loviatar's followers in Nadrezzan.
Arnes attention was jerked to the power circle, as the Archmage stepped inside and motioned to them to take their spots. She swallowed hard, and stepped over to the circle across from him, being very carefully not to muss the lines. Her companions were equally careful.
Then, the chanting began. Arnes shut her eyes, and tried to shut it out. It meant nothing, and she needed to prepare for the mental shock of severing her connection to her Goddess. Where she was going, the Weaver could not touch her.
With her eyes closed, she didn't see the fascinating blaze of colors that erupted around them. But she did have a brief sensation of speed, as though everything around her was crashing to a bruising halt.
Then, there was nothing at all.
Other battles have been equally devastating, although less well known. One such battle occurred in defense of a forest populated by Wood Elves. In the battle, a terrible magic was unleashed. In an instant, all of the drow army and most of the surface elves vanished for all eternity. But they did not die. They were only sent someplace else, another world entirely... one that had never seen elves, humans, or any race of the Forgotten Realms.
This is not their story. This is the story of their decendants, after thousands of years...
The female drow squinted at the heavens, regarding the sky with slitted eyes. It was a heavily overcast day, the kind of day drow preferred when they had to venture out in the daylight at all. Still, it stabbed at her red eyes like a lance.
Curse that polymorph spell. She thought sourly. Until this day, sunlight had never given her pain. And it wouldn't, when she was allowed to return to her natural form.
With a sigh, she lowered her gaze to look at the forces allied with her. First, she regarded her companies in this odd, perilous endeavor.
Katari returned her gaze directly, and flashed her a grin that pulled out a reluctant smile in return. Katari was half-drow, half-pwikie, a race native to this world. She looked mostly drow, but it didn't fool anyone. Her eyes, double the size of any normal drow, were winsomely cute and utterly pwikie even if they were red. Her ears jutted out from her head in the usual way for all the races of this world, but nothing could be done to help that. Her hair had been dyed white for their enterprise, but normally it was a brilliant and somewhat clashing indigo. It had been pulled into a simple braid, unlike the usual gravity defying pwikie styles. Her outfit, though... it was the gauzy, silken fabric only the pwikie made. Scarves of red and white had been sewn together to make the skirt, and the bodice was a matching red, tightly fitted and appliquéd with black spiders, her one concession to their trip.
Sighing softly, the female glanced at her next companion. Face blank, the male drow was gazing into the distance. Kelnozz's robes were plain spidersilk, severe and boring... but radiating magic to anyone who cared to look. The mage of their group, he had many translation and teleportation spells at his disposal. She hoped the latter wouldn't be needed. Under most circumstances, she wouldn't have trusted him a bit, but for this he would do his best.
The last member of their delegation shifted anxiously from foot to foot, and the female noble sent her an annoyed look. A commoner by the name of Kwi, she was remarkably unhealthy looking for a drow. Her skin was a sallow shade of grey, and her teeth were streaked with grey. She was a specialist in ancient tongues and customs.
That was what everyone thought, anyway. No anxiety showed on the female's face, but she wet her lips with a bright pink tongue at the thought. Kwi wouldn't survive a week if her true nature got out. The others in the group knew, and had been bound to silence by magic and clerical work. Except for her.
There's no need to bind me, since I always knew... As a princess of house M'Bearl, first house of Nadrezzan, Arnes had been made aware of her adoptive mother's most secret asset.
Adopted. I can still hardly believe she did it. Her hand strayed to the house symbol hanging from her neck. Arnes had always made herself useful to Matron Jerlyth, and they had even become rather fond of each other, but still... she's never expected to rise above favored ward in the family. Certainly her "sisters" hadn't expected it!
Of course, the Matron hadn't made her heir. An elf breed of gold descent, she wouldn't have had a prayer of holding the house, even supposing she'd survived to take the position. Not likely, that. Her new siblings wouldn't have accepted it for a moment... only being ranked below the least of them had earned her even grudging acceptance.
Arnes shrugged to herself, dismissing it. She'd have to get through the current mission before she could worry about house intrigue.
That brought her mind to the people surrounding her. A full two score warriors for protection. She eyed them thoughtfully, measuring them, and was pleased. They were the cream of the warrior crop, last year students and mostly nobles, led by three of their teachers. It was the kind of escort any matron would be proud to have.
And the mages... well, that made her more uneasy than proud. Two mages, one the cities Archmage, were putting the final touches on the spell that would send them through. There were also a half dozen other mages, extremely powerful, watching and waiting. They were there in case something went wrong.
Something goes wrong! Arnes suppressed a slightly hysterical giggle. That much might in place... in case something went wrong. She'd heard rumors of the first gate. If the rumors were correct, the Archmage had barely escaped with his life and without two assistants. Since then, he'd been even more cautious.
The clerical contingent was the smallest, but still strong. A high priestess of the Weaver, a high priest a Jaraten, god of Justic, and a cleric dedicated to Loviatar. Arnes dropped her hand to the whip at her best, feeling the rough, but comfortable hilt. It was nothing like the old tales said a priestess of Lloth would carry, but it was powerfully enchanted and carried a strong piece of Loviatar herself within its metal.
Not that that's entirely a good thing. Arnes herself was a priestess of the Weaver, and a good one, but the Weaver didn't specialize in enchanting weapons. As the Mistress of Pain, the Handmaiden of Hurt, Loviatar's weapons were cruel and deadly. The long, thin whip was unbreakable and would respond to her telepathic commands. Truly an amazing thing to be given to a Priestess of another order, but there were many of Loviatar's followers in Nadrezzan.
Arnes attention was jerked to the power circle, as the Archmage stepped inside and motioned to them to take their spots. She swallowed hard, and stepped over to the circle across from him, being very carefully not to muss the lines. Her companions were equally careful.
Then, the chanting began. Arnes shut her eyes, and tried to shut it out. It meant nothing, and she needed to prepare for the mental shock of severing her connection to her Goddess. Where she was going, the Weaver could not touch her.
With her eyes closed, she didn't see the fascinating blaze of colors that erupted around them. But she did have a brief sensation of speed, as though everything around her was crashing to a bruising halt.
Then, there was nothing at all.